


A Grimm Sort of Story

by lunaerum



Category: Grimm (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Gen, Harry Follows Sirius Through The Veil, M/M, Overprotective Nick, Overprotective Sirius, Post-War Canon Divergence, Season 1 Grimm AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:09:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunaerum/pseuds/lunaerum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a desperate bid to find the last living family he has, Harry travels through the Veil and finds himself in Portland, Oregon – in a world where magic doesn't exist. Just by following Sirius through the Veil, Harry's that much closer to finding him, but <i>first</i> he's got to figure out why the magical creatures of this world are <i>terrified</i> when they realize that he can see them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the War

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of ignored the fact that Harry summoned Sirius with the Resurrection Stone before walking to his death. In this fic he didn't and he will find Sirius in the Grimm!verse.

The war is won.

People die.

Harry _breaks_.

Or maybe he's always been broken. Maybe that's why the Dursleys never liked him. Maybe the only reason he never noticed until now was because he had nothing else to occupy his thoughts. With Voldemort vanquished, it gave him a lot of time to think, to notice things about himself that he had pushed aside 'for the greater good.'

It took him about a week after the war to realize that he was unhappy. And as he laid in bed the night after that revelation, he couldn't remember the last time he'd been happy, not really. The world had taken on this gray, lackluster tinge without him knowing and it seemed like it had been forever since he'd seen the world in full technicolor.

It wasn't as if he were a stranger to happiness. The emotion wasn't exactly lost to him – he still had brief moments of happiness, where he'd laugh, or realize he was sort of content, but those moments were gone before he could really savor them.

After the war, without a purpose, Harry has time to think, for better or for worse.

And he does.

He thinks about what he wants. _Except..._ that doesn't do him any good at first, because he just wants his friends to be happy. It's then that Harry realizes he doesn't know how to put himself first. He doesn't know how to make himself happy.

And maybe that's the real problem. Harry doesn't _know_ how to make himself happy.

So he thinks and he thinks and he realizes three weeks after the war that he wants his family. And he doesn't want to make a family with Ginny, like most of the wizarding world assumes – no, he wants his dad, his mom, Sirius, and Remus.

Except they're dead.

And that just makes everything worse.

Harry stops thinking about how to make himself happy after that.

***

Except he can't stop thinking about Sirius.

Because he's accepted that his mom and dad and Remus are dead, even if it hurts to think about it. But Sirius.

 _Sirius_.

He fell into the Veil. No one really knew anything about it. Maybe it didn't bring death. Maybe it _healed_ him. Maybe it was just a door. Or maybe Sirius had been stuck in the Veil for two years waiting for someone to fish him out.

Harry can't stop thinking about it.

Finding Sirius.

Saving Sirius.

It's four weeks after the war when Harry decides he's got to go after Sirius.

***

But first – research.

He does this on his own and there's not much Harry can find on the subject. It's all theory because no one who's ever gone through the Veil has ever come back out, not even when in 1919, a wizard named William Helios strapped a charmed length of rope to his chest and had his research partner hold the other end of it. The rope had returned within an hour of Helios walking through the Veil, frayed and cut short where it had once held the man.

Helios was never heard from again.

Harry doesn't think he'd mind too much, leaving this world and never coming back. Sure, he'd miss quite a few people, but there was nothing tying him to this world they way it tied his friends. And if he could somehow find Sirius – that would make it all worth it.

It's five weeks after the war that Harry finds that very same resolve that had him walking to what he assumed to be his death. He knows that he's going through that Veil – the question is, does he tell anyone else that he's going?

***

The answer to that question is a resounding _no_.

Harry can only imagine what Ron or Hermione would say. Probably would just convince him to stay. Luna might understand, in that abstract way of hers. Molly would just cry. Merlin knows what Ginny would do – the didn't exactly break up on the best of terms, though that's mostly Harry's fault. It was three weeks after the war. He'd stumbled through an explanation of why they should break up and hadn't had any solid answer for her. He just ... he couldn't do it anymore. It felt like a farce.

Ginny deserved better. They _both_ deserved better.

But still. Harry figures that he owes everyone some sort of explanation as to why he'd walked through the Veil, even if he couldn't do it to their faces.

After thinking it over, he decides that letters are probably the best choice. After all, by the time they would arrive after the fact and no one could stop him from what was probably a bad decision.

It takes him a little less than a week to write the letters. He mulls over them for much longer than he probably should have, but he wants them to be perfect. They are, after all, going to be the last thing he'll ever say to his friends.

It's a month and a half after the war that Harry realizes – quite belatedly – that if he's really going to go through the Veil, he probably ought to bring all of his material possessions he'd miss if he was parted from and a whole lot of money.

After all, if the Veil really was a door, there probably wouldn't be a Gringotts on the other side.

(Or maybe there would be. Goblins were crafty little buggers. If there was the possibility of making a profit, Goblins were sure to come.)

So Harry makes an impromptu visit to Diagon Alley and invites Hermione and Ron along with him, because it might be a selfish way to think, but if he's really going to leave them forever and ever, he'd like to see them as much as possible before he does so.

Harry arrives at the Leaky last and after Hermione hugs him for a good solid minute, she pulls away and just scrutinizes him. For a moment, Harry thinks she must have found out about his plan to travel through the Veil, but she just makes a comment about how he's different than he normally is.

Harry blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it. "How?" He finally asks.

"I don't know," Hermione says, looking him over once more. "You're just ... _different_."

And there's silence then, stagnant and heavy. Harry wonders if his resolve to follow Sirius, even if it meant his death, has changed him.

***

Harry tries not to shift uncomfortably in his uncomfortable chair. He's sure that was why the goblins had offered him the thing. They'd never forgiven him for the whole 'breaking into Gringotts' thing, but Harry can kind of understand that. Still, he's an important figure in the wizarding world and they can't afford to make him angry – literally.

If he went on record and told all the witches and wizards to withdraw their money from Gringotts, the goblins wouldn't have a business left to be greedy over. Still. He kinda feels bad for them.

Maybe that's why he begins his audience with the head goblin of Gringotts with, "I'd like to donate my trust vault." Because hadn't  _that_ been a surprise – that the vault Harry had seen at eleven was only a small part of his riches, that he had three other vaults – not including the one Sirius had left to Harry in his will! 

Ever the professional, Urnar barely even sneers at him before asking, "To who?"

He's always treated Harry with a cold distance, professional and fair enough to Harry, but never kind. Maybe that's why he takes such pleasure in what he says next. "To Gringotts. Can I do that?"

Urnar blinks. His nostrils flare, but he doesn't say a word. For a good long moment, there's nothing but silence between them. Then, Harry can see the moment where Urnar visibly warms up to him. "Of course. Any particular reason?"

"I'm ... leaving." Harry doesn't quite know how to say that he's possibly marching to his certain death for the second time, but leaving – that sounds about right. "And I don't want to be on bad terms with goblins before I do so." Harry takes this moment to look around the office the goblin who greeted him had taken him to. It's ornate, as can be expected from goblins, but not ostentatious. It's quite beautiful, with its deep, reds and bright golds. "I'd also like to withdraw all my money from my vaults and place it into a bottomless bag, if that's possible."

Urnar doesn't look as incensed at the statement as Harry thought he'd be. Opening with the donation was probably a good idea. "Of course," the well dressed goblin says, removing himself from his plush padded chair and gesturing for Harry to do the same. After Harry has done so, Urnar leads them out of his office and down the hall. Having never been down this way, Harry takes his time gazing at his surroundings and almost misses what Urnar says next. "May I ask where you are going?"

Harry thinks over his next words carefully. "I'm ... going to find my godfather."

And Urnar stares up at Harry, eyes dark and knowing, but doesn't reply.

***

With Harry firmly (back?) in the goblins' good graces, it takes barely twenty minutes for Urnar and three other goblins to retrieve his assets and have them placed in a bottomless bag. The goblins are even so kind as to give him a goblin-warded bag that's charmed against thieves and will always make its way back to him once it keys onto Harry's magical signature.

He even leaves every one of his friends (and Teddy) a substantial sum of galleons, figuring that he might as well provide them financial security if he can't be there physically to protect them.

It's a sort of bittersweet moment, looking down at a near weightless bag filled with his money – knowing that he's well and truly resolved to this. That he's really going to go through the Veil. That he's really never going to see Hermione and Ron and Luna and Neville after he does so again.

That he's going to find Sirius, even if he dies trying.

( _Hopefully_ , he doesn't die. Because while he's not afraid of _death_ , he's certainly afraid of how mad Sirius might be once he finds out Harry is dead.)

Harry walks out of Gringotts, emotions lighter _and_ heavier at the same time, and meets Hermione and Ron in Flourish  & Botts. There his two best friends are – predictably – arguing over whether or not Hermione _truly_ needs another book. Harry makes himself comfortable and watches the two with a smile, knowing that it's probably the last time he'd see them before his trip into the Veil.

***

It's a month and three weeks when Harry starts to pack in earnest. Urnar had told Harry that the goblin-crafted bag would take a few days to get used to his magical signature, so he spends that time going through the books in the library at 12 Grimmauld Place. Most of them are dark in nature, but many of them look like they might be quite useful. He's not exactly smart like Hermione and he doesn't necessarily _like_ reading a ton of books, but Harry doesn't know everything.

And what if Sirius is in trouble? What if the exact spell needed is in one of those books in the Black Library? Or what if he's hurt? Harry's knows one healing spell and what if that's not enough?

So Harry goes through every single book in the Black Library, cataloging the ones he's going to leave behind and the one's he's going to take with him. It takes him about a week to do so, but that's good, because by the time he's done, his bag has keyed to his signature and it's an easy thing to place the seemingly endless stack of books he's decided he needs to take with him into his bag.

In his packing frenzy, he also decides he probably needs to take some potions. And food. And clothing. And his invisibility cloak. He gets a holster for his wand that straps securely to his forearm and learns some preservation charms for the store-bought potions and food he places in his bag. He makes list after list after list and every time he does so, he finds one more item he's forgotten to pack.

Finally, two months after the war, he's ready.

***

It doesn't take much to break into the Department of Mysteries again. They haven't changed much on the security front and even if they had, they'd be no match for a determined Harry Potter.

He makes his way to the Ministry of Magic at sunset, after sending off the letters. No one will get them until tomorrow morning and by that time, he'll be long gone. He's wearing his cloak and he's cast a silencing charm on his feet. His wand is strapped to his forearm, his bag is slung across his shoulder, and his hands are steady.

He's not scared, like he thought he might be. He's calm, clear-headed in a way that he wasn't when he walked to his death the last time. It takes him barely fifteen minutes to get into the Department of Mysteries and when he sees the Veil, he sort of stops and stares.

There are these wisps of fabric fluttering in the non-existence breeze, beckoning Harry to come forward.

He does.

He stands just at the entrance of the Veil and closes his eyes, thinks a little prayer to any higher power that's listening.

Finally, after a moment, he opens his eyes. He stares into the Veil, wondering what Sirius was thinking when he'd fallen in.

And Harry takes one step forward, then two steps, and the Veil whisks him away to a world unknown.


	2. The Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry travels through the veil and wakes up in Portland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I got really great feedback from people on this and I'm so happy and grateful for it. Thank you guys so much! 
> 
> I know this fic seems really serious (haha, Sirius) but I promise it won't be completely angsty the entire fic. It will hopefully start to lighten up in the next few chapters. Maybe.
> 
> Also be sure to let me know how my 'voices' for the Grimm characters sound. It's my first time writing them!

Traveling through the Veil is a bit like flying. It feels as if he's completely still, but he's getting that same sense of debilitating, exhilarating vertigo that comes with flying his broom above the clouds and diving down towards the Earth.

It's …  _disorienting_.

So is the silence. No sound reaches Harry and he has no control over his body. He can't even open his mouth to scream.

He can't even open his eyes.

Maybe that's for the best.

Who knows what sort of creatures might be lurking in the Veil or what other strange and terrifying things he would've seen if he could open his eyes … yes, maybe it's for the best that he can't.

He doesn't want to arrive in a new world traumatized, after all.

Or, rather, more traumatized than he already is.

Instead of thinking too hard about where he is, where he's going, or how he's getting there, he thinks about Sirius.

Just like the star he's named after, Sirius is a beacon of light for Harry. He occupies the time thinking about nothing else but his godfather, wondering what Sirius' life is like, what he's doing, and hoping that the Veil will lead Harry to where Sirius is.

And while there's a fair amount of research that says that the Veil is sentient, Harry hopes it's not cruel enough to keep Harry away from his last living family. Perhaps he should have verbally implored the entrance of the Veil before climbing in. Told it that he wanted to find Sirius.

For all his research, for all the time spent thinking about the Veil and about Sirius, Harry had once again rushed into a situation without thinking.

He doesn't regret it – not  _yet_ at least, but he hopes desperately that his lack of foresight won't keep him from his godfather.

He hopes that the Veil is kind enough to take him where Sirius had ended up.

***

There's no way of telling time in the Veil.

No way of knowing if days, months, or even years had passed.

Although the silence and the stillness are still rather unnerving, after a while, he's thankful for the peace they bring. He doesn't remain awake the entire time he's in the Veil, but he doesn't get tired. Instead, when he's too bored with the darkness and the silence, he sleeps. It offers him little respite, because his naps never feel long or short, but he's thankful for them anyway. His wand, his bag, and his clothing – some of Dudley's old rags, because he wasn't sure how his travels through the Veil would go and he didn't want to mess up the few nice pieces of clothing he has, which were stowed away in his bag – remain on his person, which is good because he had no any contingency plans for if the Veil had ripped his material possessions from him.

The Veil is neither hot nor cold, but Harry wonders if that's actually so, or if Harry has simply lost all sensation in his body. For all that Harry can't move, can't hear a thing, can't open his eyes, it's going considerably better than he thought it might. There's no overwhelming sense of existential terror, as one theorist had postulated, but it really is rather boring.

He has no entertainment besides his own thoughts.

And after a while, even  _those_ betray him.

***

It begins with the musing that maybe,  _just_  maybe, Sirius wouldn't want to see him.

Harry pushes the thought aside easy enough at the time, but after what feels like forever and a day in the Veil, with no solace but his own mind, Harry has learned to keep a running stream of conscious thought.

Its purpose is two-fold – it distracts him from the reality of where he is, but also provides him at least some amount of entertainment in a space where no sound enters and he can't move a muscle.

So while he pushes the thought aside at the moment, the idea soon eats at him and he starts obsessing over it. Soon, he can't think of anything else.

It  _consumes_  him.

What if Sirius hates him? What if Sirius blames him for being pushed into the Veil in the first place? What if Sirius blames him for Remus' death? For his mom and dad's death? What if Sirius takes  _one_  look at Harry and says he never wants to see him again?

The thoughts consume him.

He spends an eternity wondering if Sirius will even want to see him – if Sirius still even loves him – that it honestly doesn't come as much surprise when he wakes from a nap and feels a familiar wetness upon his cheeks. His eyes are still closed, so the tears don't blur his vision, but it's still incredibly annoying to have that wetness on his cheek and not be able to brush it off.

If only to prevent more tears from falling, Harry pushes all the negative, heartbreaking,  _depressing_ thoughts to the side and stubbornly thinks of something else.

If Harry arrived and Sirius hated him, he would make it right. He  _would_. He would beg for forgiveness if he had to.

(But hopefully he doesn't.)

***

His trip through the Veil ends rather abruptly, all things considered. One moment, all round him is still. Silent.

The next, he can feel sunlight on his face, the way the slight breeze begins drying the tear tracks on his cheeks. He can hear birds chirping in the distance, but it's not until he hears people talking and cars honking that he opens his eyes.

The sunlight burns.

Could he really be out of the Veil? Was this really where Sirius had ended up?

Curious, he raises his hands to observe them, feeling as if he's a stranger to his own body, having not seen it in such a long time. His hands are shaking, but the Veil hadn't aged him at all, like he had been worried it might. Because he had no way of knowing how long he was in the Veil, for a while, he had been worried that he might step out of it as old as Dumbledore once was.

But his hands looked the same – exactly the same, as Harry remembered he had gotten a hang nail on his right pointer finger that had torn and bled and that blood was still crusted under what was left of the nail – so Harry supposed it was reasonable to assume that the rest of him was the same too.

Good.

That was good. Sirius would recognize him then.

Draped across his chest, his bag is a comforting, nearly negligible, weight and though invisible, Harry can feel the holster strapped to his forearm. His clothes were all in one piece, ugly and baggy as they were. He'd change once he found someplace to stay.

For a moment, he just stands in the alleyway (or assumes it to be so? Harry's not sure. His brain is still a bit fuzzy from being in the Veil), taking in his surroundings, the slightly sweet smell to the air, the warmth of the sunlight on his chilled flesh.

When he finally assures himself that this is real, that he's  _really_  out of the Veil, he takes a step forward, blinking when that crushing sense of vertigo that was so familiar to him while he was in the Veil appears once more, causing him to trip. He rights himself easily, but notes with a wince that the Veil had left him with some rather unpleasant side-effects.

The vertigo and the shaking hands likely weren't permanent. It's unlikely that the ravenous hunger was either. And although he wanted desperately to hit the ground running searching for Sirius, he needed to find someplace to sleep, something to  _eat_ , before he contemplated anything else.

Placing a shaking hand against the brick wall for support, he makes his way out of the alley and onto the street. As Harry blinks the dark spots flitting across his range of vision (or at least tries to), he knows he has to get to a hotel or a motel or  _something_ , because he's  _exhausted_ , dizzy, and so,  _so_ close to passing out.

Maybe it's his desperation for a warm bed that causes him to cross the road without looking both ways.

Maybe it's his exhaustion that causes him to ignore the shouting coming from the other side of the street, warning someone to be careful and to look out.

Either way, he doesn't see the car until it's too late.

***

He's been hit by a car. Harry doesn't think it's too bad – it hurts, but not nearly as bad as the _Cruciatus_. There's someone above him, with bright eyes and dark hair who looks  _really_  worried for Harry, who's probably the same person cupping the nape of his neck and urging him to stay awake.

Harry tries, but the shock and pain of getting hit by a car had depleted the last of his energy. The dark spots get bigger and bigger and exhaustion is creeping up on Harry,  _fast_.

He's going to pass out. But he'll be okay.

He's survived worse.

The man doesn't know that though. The man looks scared and worried, more so when it becomes apparent that Harry won't be able to stay awake until the ambulance arrives. He says something that Harry can't hear, griping the nape of Harry's neck harder, and that's when Harry knows he's going to pass out in the next five seconds. Before he does so, he should probably reassure the man that he's not going to die or that he's not grievously injured, just tired beyond belief.

"'ll b' f'ne," Harry manages to get out, words nearly unintelligible. Harry doesn't stay awake long enough to know if the man had understood him, because immediately after saying that, he falls into the first real sleep he's had in what feels like an eternity.

***

They had just finished closing a case and Hank thought it at least warranted a cup of coffee, from the new shop downtown. Nick had balked at the prices – and rightfully so! Who pays sixteen dollars for a medium cup of coffee – but had ordered a small, black coffee when Hank, after watching Nick have a small crisis over the prices, offered to pay.

Hank was still laughing at Nick as they made their way back to the car. "Man, the  _look_  on your face. I should've taken a picture."

"Yeah, yeah," Nick retorts, trying and failing to keep an answering grin off of his face. "Laugh it up. I can't believe you spent almost thirty dollars on two cups of coffee. I – " And the grin falls off of his face completely as he spots a boy, maybe fifteen or sixteen, stumble out of an alley.

Beside him, Nick can feel Hank tense, knowing Nick hadn't just lost his train of thought, that something was  _wrong_ , and he can see out of the corner of his eye that Hank just gets tenser once he realizes what Nick had spotted.

"We should probably go check that out," Hank says, placing the coffee on the hood of their car, knowing that Nick wouldn't be able to go back to work unless they made sure the kid was alright.

"Uh huh." Nick verbalizes, too focused on tracking the kid's stumbling, faltering movement.

They both see it at the same time.

A car whips around the corner a little too fast, just as the kid starts crossing the street, looking dazed, exhausted, and possibly hurt.

" _HEY!_ Watch out!" Nick cups his hands around his mouth, unable to cross the street because of the cars speeding by him. Beside him, Nick can hear Hank yelling too, but he can't any of the actual words with the blood roaring in his ears.

And then it happens.

The car hits the kid. Next to him, Hank curses and Nick turns to him, eyes a bit wild and dark. "Call 911. I'm going to go over there."

Nick doesn't wait for Hank's reply. Hank's a good, competent cop. Nick trusts him. He'll know what to say to get an ambulance over the fastest. He crosses the street, ignoring the way a car honks at him – that stops fast enough when he flashes his badge – running towards the scene of the accident.

The driver's car door is open and it doesn't take a detective to figure out that the man is frantic and afraid. When he sees Nick's badge, he starts babbling even faster about how the kid came out of nowhere, about how he didn't mean to hurt the boy – Nick tunes him out after about two seconds.

"I'm going to need you to step aside, sir. I need to make sure the boy is okay. We'll need your statement – once my partner is finished calling 911, he'll take it." And Nick looks back across the street to where Hank is finishing the 911 call, making eye-contact, and gesturing to the man that had hit the kid. Hank nods.

Nick turns back to the boy.

He's sprawled across the asphalt, blood trickling down his face from what looks to be a cut on his forehead. There's no other visible wounds on his body, but there could be more hiding under his clothing. Nick crouches down beside the boy, placing a hand on the back of his neck to prop him up a little bit.

This wakes the kid up and he stares blearily up at Nick, exhaustion clear on his face. He's in pain too, that much is clear from his grimacing and the quiet groan that leaves his mouth as he wakes.

"I'm Detective Nick Burkhardt with the PPD. You were just hit by a car, could you tell me your name?" Nick says, trying to keep some level of calm in his voice, but any tranquility that he feels quickly leaves him as he sees the boy close his eyes once more. "Hey, hey! Stay awake. Don't fall asleep on me." Because while the boy just might be tired, it's far more likely that he was injured – especially since he'd been hit by a car.

The boy wakes up again. "Hey, there," Nick says as gently as he can. "Can you stay awake for me? Until the ambulance comes?" The kid shows no sign of understanding him. Was he really that far gone? Or did he just not understand English?

Nick leans over the boy further, scanning his face and any other visible skin for injuries. He sees none. The boy blinks rapidly and his head lolls in Nick's grip.

He's going to pass again.

Nick accidentally grips the boy's neck harder, trying not to panic when the boy starts closing his eyes for longer and longer periods of time. "Stay awake – c'mon, you can do it. Just stay awake until the ambulance comes."

The boy stares up at Nick, eyes only half-open and almost completely limp in Nick's arms. "'ll b' f'ne," he mumbles and Nick can  _just_  make out what was said before the kid's eyes close and he becomes dead-weight in Nick's arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on tumblr! My writing tumblr is lunaerum and my regular tumblr is iirlharrypotter. I need more people to talk about Grimm with!


	3. The Hospital

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's stay at the hospital. Nick's feeling strangely ... paternal? Hank laughs at Nick once or twice and Harry's doctor has some bad news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, on my writing tumblr — my url is lunaerum, give me a follow — I said that I'd get this chapter out by Wednesday, but I've honestly been so exhausted and totally not confident in my writing that it took me a little longer than I said. Therefore, I made this chapter extra long instead of splitting it into two. I would really appreciate your thoughts on this chapter!
> 
> Probably going to come back and edit this chapter, but right now I just want to post and be done with it. And I'm totally going to go back and edit the '***' out of the previous chapters if anyone is wondering. Just wanted to try something new and I don't like it. Hence, the simple horizontal lines in this chapter!
> 
> Also be sure to let me know how my 'voices' for the Grimm characters sound. It's my first time writing them!
> 
> Timeline: Postwar for HP. Xover begins post Plumed Serpent and Pre—Island of Dreams. This is a Season 1 Grimm AU.

The boy is laying on a hospital bed, still and pale. With the blood cleaned from his face and out of those baggy clothes, he looks even younger than Nick's initial estimate. Somewhere around fourteen maybe, though he may just be influenced by how frail and fragile the boy looks.

If not for the constant beeping of the machines surrounding the boy, Nick would think that with the boy's washed out, drawn face that he was —

No.

Nick doesn't even want to think like that.

Though Nick might be oblivious to some things (especially matters of the heart or anything athletic) he's certainly not about the way the other officers at the station talk about him. About how he's going to break one day, caring about everyone like he does. About how his heart's too big for his job.

And maybe they're right — but there's something about this boy, something familiar. Something that calls to him.

Did Nick know the boy's parents? Had he met the boy somewhere?

But that didn't sound right. Nick doesn't think he'd forget the boy even if he were younger when they first met and while it's  _possible_  he had met the boy's parents — it doesn't seem likely.

Frustrated, but unwilling to move from his spot at the boy's bedside, Nick thinks back on the circumstances that brought them to this sterile, white hospital room — tries to remember if there's anything he missed.

Anything that would help him figure out why the boy is so familiar.

* * *

The boy goes limp in Nick's arms and his heart just about  _stops_. He's still stuck on the last thing the boy muttered before passing out — ' _I'll be_   _fine'_  — and the analytical, cop part of him wonders just what had happened to the boy in his life where he make those his last words before passing out, when it was very, very clear he was not okay.

Probably nothing good. Nick curses under his breath.

Even more pressing than the horrific estimates of what could have happened to the boy before Nick got to him, is the flash of equally horrific memories of every single person in his life he couldn't save when he should have been able to. That's not going to happen today.

Nick won't let it.

Even with his conviction, his fingers shake as he presses two fingers to the boy's neck. He holds his breath the entire time he checks for a pulse, hoping against hope that the boy is still alive. If Nick was in his right mind he would realize he was being irrational — because even though the boy's chest is barely moving up and down and that head wound is still bleeding, he's very clearly still breathing, very clearly still alive.

But Nick in his right mind, not exactly. From the moment he saw the boy stumble out of that alley, some overprotective — and he might've even called it paternal, if he was in his right mind and he even knew what paternal felt like — urges, instincts,  _whatever_  had erupted in him and maybe that's why he's not thinking, Nick doesn't know — all Nick cares about is —

 _Aha_.

The way the boy's head lolls at the touch of his fingers isn't exactly comforting —  _but_  there's a pulse there, maybe not as strong as Nick would like, but steady and strong.

Nick exhales.

He rolls the boy onto his back and doesn't move, though the asphalt is biting into his knees. Nick doesn't want to move the boy more than necessary.

The often comforting sounds of Portland — the noise of traffic and people, the sound of a city — have strangely dimmed in comparison to the boy's quiet breathing.

Nick can hear Hank finishing up with still quite hysterical man, but even that is a bit distant. All Nick can really focus on is the boy in his arms and how some of his hair is matted to his head — how skinny he is, how there's this feeling like he knows the boy.

Or should know him.

Nick's so focused on this intangible, just out of reach feeling that he doesn't notice when Hank kneels down beside him and he nearly startles when Hank begins speaking.

"Hey, man. He okay? Ambulance should be here in a few minutes — anything I can do?"

Nick looks back at his partner, expression grim. "Don't know yet. He passed out, don't know why." Nick stares back down at the boy as if willing him to wake and assure the Grimm he was alright. Nick frowns when he doesn't.

"He'll be fine." Hank says, staring at the boy with almost the same amount of intensity as Nick. Nick frowns deeper, because there's no way of  _knowing_  — "None of the wounds look life—threatening." Hank continues. "Besides, he looks like a fighter. And you of all people should know that fighters don't quit, even if they should."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Nick grumbles, refusing for once to be an optimist. There was nothing optimistic about the situation. The boy could be hurt badly and holding him while Nick's wrists and palms were made tacky with his blood awoke in him made those irrational overprotective urges flare up, made him unable to entertain Hank's attempt at lightening the situation.

"Well. You're a fighter too." Hank claps Nick on the shoulder and stands. The sound of an ambulance draws nearer and all of the training Nick has ever had tells him he should get ready to make way for the paramedics, but every instinct urges him to stay as close as possible, tells him not to let go.

Eventually, after what feels like hours, but can logically only be a few minutes, the ambulance arrives and the paramedics hop out of the back with a stretcher and Nick reluctantly lets go of the boy as they approach. Nick stumbles out of their way, feeling strangely lightheaded at the sight of the boy's blood smeared on his hands.

The paramedics get the boy onto a stretcher and into the ambulance, snapping Nick out of his daze and he runs towards the ambulance, which is parked a bit haphazardly in front of the alley the boy had stumbled out of.

"I'm coming with him." Nick says and he can tell that one of the paramedics — a man, not that much taller than himself — is about to argue with him, so he flashes his badge and repeats, with heavy emphasis on every single word, " _I'm coming with him_."

The paramedics don't try to stop him from getting into the ambulance after that.

And Nick rides along to the hospital — in silence — and when they get to the hospital, the paramedics rush the boy inside, where he's not allowed to follow the boy any longer, not even when he shows the doctor his badge.

The doctor — that Nick probably hadn't left a good impression on, with the flashing of the badge and everything — comes to him in the waiting room as soon as they had gotten the boy settled into a hospital bed and were presumably finished with the preliminary exam, which left him sitting at the boy's bedside, waking for him to wake.

There was nothing in his memory to suggest that Nick knew the boy, nothing in his memory that revealed some relation to the boy.

Which was … troubling.

Because those overprotective urges that had been so strong as he held the boy,  _bleeding_ , in his arms?

Yeah.

They're still there. Strong as ever.

And Nick can't figure out the  _reason_  for them.

There's a knock at the glass door behind him and when Nick turns, it's Hank with a cup of coffee in each hand. "Nick," he says quietly. "Doctor wants to see us."

* * *

Nick is slow to rise from his chair, trepidation mounting at Hank's statement. It only rises when he sees the doctor, clothes rumpled — rubbing her temples, knuckles white with the force of her grip. She only looks up when Hank and Nick step in front of her. Needing something to grasp, Nick grabs one of the cups of coffee Hank is holding and takes a long swig of it, feeling more prepared for the conversation, even if it's just a little bit.

"It's — it's not good." The doctor starts, haltingly. Nick's heart stops for the second time that day. "He'll live — he's fine," the doctor continues when she sees Nick and Hank's alarmed expression. "But — " She exhales. It's a frustrated sound, loud in the nearly empty hallway. "Did he say his name? Where he was from? Anything?"

"No." Nick answers. "Nothing." He's wondering about those same questions himself.

"Well." The doctor's lips are pressed into a thin line. "After the patient was brought in, since he was not able to give any information regarding his medical history — I ordered a full work up and … I have to say what we found was not … good."

Nick really wishes she would get on with it and from the quick glance at Hank's face — he wishes the same. "What do you mean? What's wrong with him?"

"It's very likely that he was starved, before getting hit by that car. Or homeless, give the state of his clothing. He has numerous scars and it's unlikely that they were self—inflicted. A lightning bolt on his forehead, words on his hand —"

"Wait — " Hank says, raising his free hand, palm up — the universal gesture for stop. He's looking a little confused and  _a lot_  angry. "What do you mean  _words —"_

"The … the words  _'I must not tell lies'_  have been carved into his hand. We don't know how but given that it was his right hand and the writing is legible, in all likelihood it wasn't done by his own hand. Which  _implies_ that someone else did so for him."

Nick ducks his head and stares down at the rather paltry cup of coffee, hating that he's able to quickly make the connection between the alleged abuse (which doesn't seem so much alleged as fact — Nick had  _held_  the boy and he'd barely weighed a thing, even as dead—weight), the scars, and the curious statement the boy had made before passing out.

And the  _implications_  Nick's mind is coming with aren't good either, each more horrific than the last.

It's very clear from what the doctor has said — and Nick's own observations — that the boy either hasn't had a good adult figure in his life recently or maybe hasn't had one at all — and it makes no small part of Nick  _hurt_  for this boy. Grieve in a way that maybe the boy hasn't been able to in a while. Nick opens his mouth to say something — ask a question, maybe — when he's interrupted.

By the boy flat—lining in the room behind them.

Nick turns so fast he almost stumbles on the white linoleum floors and he's still in shock when he sees the boy clearly not dead, sitting on the edge of the bed, blankets spilling onto the floor — looking both petulant and sheepish in equal measure, scowling at the loud machines around him.

This boy is going to give Nick a  _heart attack_.

* * *

Harry wakes slowly, which is a novel experience. For the past few months, Harry has barely slept at all and when he has, it's been on a hair trigger — any noise louder than a whisper woke him. Being stuck permanently in that fight—or—flight survival instinct had taken its toll on him. Maybe  _that's_  why he felt so broken after the war.

But waking up slowly? Groggy? Not immediately alert and ready to fight?

It felt good, as weird as that sounded. It felt great even.

Maybe this was proof Harry wasn't as broken as he thought he was.

Except —

He wakes in a bright, white room. Disoriented from sleep, he almost thinks he's dead again and in that King's Cross station of his imagination that been suffused with that abnormally bright light — but then the sound of beeping machines registers in his mind.

Harry groans.

Now he'd never been to a muggle hospital before, not that he can remember, but he's heard Vernon and Dudley complain about them enough that he knows before he can really survey his surroundings that he's in a hospital.

Either that, or he's been kidnapped by some weirdo who stuck needles in him and hooked him up to beeping machines.

Unlikely, but considering Harry's life, possible.

Regardless of his location, he's got to get out of here. He has to start searching for Sirius!

… and maybe get something to eat.

Either way, he's got to get the needle out of him and get those weird things off of his chest first.

He starts with the needle, yanking it out and cursing when blood wells in the crook of his elbow where the needle had once been.

With his fingers pressed into wound, Harry sits up completely — turning so that he's sitting on the side of the bed with his feet almost touching the floor. The blankets are now more on the floor than on him and he almost feels bereft — especially once he realizes he's not in his own clothes, but in some sort of open—backed gown.

And then, a very scary thought occurs to him — if the doctor had taken his clothes, had they also taken his bag? His  _wand?_

Almost frantic and trying desperately to remain calm, Harry shifts his touch from the needle puncture at his elbow down his forearm, visibly relaxing when he feels the shape of his holster. It's still invisible, still on his person and Harry can  _just_  barely feel his magic responding to his wand at the touch.

Calmer, but still a bit frantic — Harry searches for his bag but doesn't find it, not by the bed or beside it or on it. Harry forces himself to breathe in and out. His bag is probably with his clothes. And since his bag's been warded against thieves, the doctor who took it from him wouldn't be able to see anything in it if they happened to look.

Everything was okay.

Everything was  _going to be_  okay.

All he had to do was get the weird things off of his chest, leave, and get his things — and then he could start searching for Sirius.

Reaching under the weird dress thing, he rips them off same as he did the needle. He winces when it feels like bits of skin are yanked off too and lets the thin cords fall to the floor — unprepared when the machine closest to him begins  _screaming_.

(Okay, it's not a scream, technically, but it certainly sounds like it, especially to Harry — who had just woken up.)

Harry tries not to jump at that and tries not to look too guilty when three people — one clearly a doctor and one who looks kind of familiar — turn to look stare at him through the glass door.

 _Merlin_ , today isn't going at all like he wanted.

* * *

When Nick woke up this morning, he didn't exactly expect any of this to happen.

Sure, his life's gotten just a bit strange lately — but he didn't expect to inexplicably bond with a boy of no more than sixteen and have about twenty mini heart attacks before six o'clock.

But here he is.

In the hospital, pressing his free hand against his chest, like some sort of Victorian maiden, trying to get his heart to slow down.

"Hey, man—" Hank says and Nick's been partners with him long enough to know that particular tone means Hank is trying not to laugh at him. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Nick says darkly, glaring at a clearly amused Hank. "I'm fine." And before walking in the boy's hospital room after the doctor, he drains the rest of his coffee in a few gulps — tossing it in the trash — hoping that maybe, just  _maybe_  it might give him enough strength to finish the day.

* * *

Thankfully, the doctor comes in just after the machines begin screeching and Harry blinks up at her, trying to look as innocent as possible. She raises an eyebrow at him — and if she weren't a considerably younger muggle, he might've thought she was Madam Pomfrey with how unimpressed she looked. She turns the machines off with a practiced motion and then turns towards Harry, one of those metal things held in one hand.

"… what are you doing?" Harry leans away from the doctor as she comes closer, armed with the strange metal instrument. It's almost funny how potions and spells seemed more normal to Harry than a mundane muggle medical instrument.

Almost.

Because he didn't know what the doctor was about to do.

"About to check your heartbeat and your breathing if you'd let me. It's a painless process." She stops her approach, exchanging a glance with the two men standing behind her.

"Well," Harry draws out the word, noting her accent and looking between the three adults crowded into his hospital room. He absentmindedly wonders where the Veil had spit him out. "My breathing's fine. So is my heart. But if it would make you feel better—"

"It would." The doctor interrupts.

"Then fine." Harry says and tries not to flinch when the cold metal touches his chest.

The test takes about two minutes and she asks him to breathe in and out and hold his breath — Harry thinks it's quite pointless, but Harry's also not a muggle doctor so he can't exactly  _tell_  if it's completely pointless or not.

After she's done she pulls the round metal piece from his chest and takes a step back, pulling a tiny notebook from her pocket and recording something in it. Harry's not curious enough to ask what it is.

"I've got to go log this. I'll be right back," the doctor says, not to any particular person. She turns and is about to leave, when Harry remembers he has something important to ask her.

"Wait!" Harry nearly shouts and the action is hell on his dry throat. He coughs, pushing aside the cup of water when one of the men — the shorter one with the black hair and blue eyes — offers it to him. The doctor turns immediately at the sound of his voice, startled, by the look of it. "Where are my things? I was wearing different clothes and I had a bag — where are they?"

The doctor stares at him for a moment, searching his face for something. She must find it, because not a moment later, she says, "I'll bring them to you in just a minute."

Harry sighs, relieved — that last bit of frantic anxiety dissipating at her words. "Thank you," he says almost reverently. " _Thank you_."

After the doctor leaves, the man with the blue eyes presses the glass of water into his hand — a stern look in his eye. Harry takes a sip of water and sets it on the bedside table.

The other man, with brown skin and warm brown eyes, laughs at that — laughs harder when he sees the shorter man scowl.

"I'm Detective Nick Burkhardt." The man who had poured Harry a glass of water says, tossing the blankets Harry had pushed off the bed back on it before sitting in the chair next to his bed. Harry plays with the corner of one of the blankets instead of looking at him.

"I'm Detective Hank Griffin," the other man offers, still standing, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket.

"Can you tell us your name?" Detective Burkhardt says without missing a beat. Harry gets the feeling that they've done this before — maybe not this exact situation, but they've certainly questioned people together before. They're too practiced and comfortable together not to have done so. Probably partners then.

"I'm Harry." Harry says, moving himself so that he's propped against the pillows rather than sitting on the side of the bed.

"Last name?" Detective Griffin asks. His tone is gentle, but Harry still flinches at the question. Does he really want to say his last name? A new start was the entire point of launching himself into the Veil — well that and finding Sirius.

It doesn't take much deliberation to say, "Just Harry."

Detective Griffin's voice is still gentle when he asks, "What about your parents?"

Parents.

Harry hasn't had those in a while.

And he thinks back to some of those half—delirious thoughts he'd had in the Veil … that long period where he'd thought Sirius would hate him … and now that he's out of the Veil he can recognize some of those thoughts as completely irrational — but some linger and he can't quite shake them.

Would Sirius blame Harry for the death of Lily and James?

Harry flinches back at the thought.

Surely Sirius wouldn't blame Harry for something that wasn't his fault.

(But it  _was_  his fault — it was the prophecy that surrounded  _him_  that got his parents killed. It  _was_ his fault. It was  _his_  fault.)

Harry grips the worn scratchy blanket that's placed over his knees like his life depends on it. Who knows — maybe it does. "Dead." He says, staring down at his lap. He clears his throat. "Where am I?"

"Portland, Oregon." Detective Burkhardt says, exchanging a confused glance with his partner, still standing just a few steps away. "Do you …  _not_  know where you are?"

"That's why I asked," Harry says, not unkindly. He forces himself to let go of the blanket. "Is that in America?"

There's a pause here — Detective Burkhardt looks more confused at his question — though it's cut rather short by Harry's doctor knocking on the glass door, sliding it open then shut behind her.

"Here are your clothes," she says, handing Harry Dudley's old rags, neatly folded. Harry feels almost embarrassed — he wants to tell her that she didn't have to fold them, but it's a moot point now. The clothes have already been folded. Though it does look a bit strange for Dudley's old, threadbare — and now bloodied, since Harry was hit by a car — clothes to be folded. "And your bag." She places Harry's bag on top of his clothes in his lap, expression more solemn than Harry thinks the situation really demands.

"Can I go now?" Harry asks and the question sort of echoes in the small hospital room.

"We'd really like to keep you overnight for observation," Harry's doctor says and her fingers twitch — she places them in her pockets after she notices Harry staring. Harry wonders idly if she's a person that talks with her hands — and then her words register.

"You can't keep me here." Harry says, shoving his blankets off of his bare legs. "I'm eighteen — you can't keep me here if I don't want to be here."

(Or at least that's how Harry thinks it works in America. Isn't eighteen the magic number?

Either way, Harry wants out of the hospital.)

"I—I can't in good conscience release you —"

"He can stay with me," Detective Burkhardt says and both Harry's doctor and Harry turn to him. Even he looks surprised by his statement.

"I have money," Harry says, that small part of him that the Dursleys had groomed that still remained after all these years  _screaming_  at him not to be a burden. "I can stay at a hotel—"

"I have the space and it'd make me feel better at night if I knew you weren't getting hit by another car," Detective Burkhardt says, tiny smile at the corner of his lips so Harry knows he's kidding.

Harry tries not to smile at the awful joke. He doesn't want to enable the man, after all.

(He doesn't succeed, but that's okay.)

"If you're sure," Harry says, hopeful. It would be nice not to sleep in a hotel. To sleep in a home that didn't have a screaming portrait of an awful, vile woman in it (a house he'd bequeathed to Hermione and Ron, though they were more likely to burn it down than live in it) or a house elf that was probably plotting Harry's murder.

"I am," Detective Burkhardt's clear voice interrupting Harry's rather strange train of thought.

Harry's doctor huffs, but doesn't argue — turning to Detective Burkhardt saying something that Harry doesn't hear.

In the corner of his eye, Harry sees Detective Griffin rock back on his heels and look fondly exasperated before stepping out of the room and pulling some sort of weird looking rectangle out of his pocket and talking into it.

Harry frowns at that, because how does _that_ make sense — frowning deeper when his magic thrums beneath his skin, warm, content, and strangest of all,  _safe_.

His magic's never done that before.

Weird.

(It has.

Harry just can't remember.

Understandable — he  _was_  an infant when it stopped, after all.)

* * *

 

When Nick first took a look at the paperwork the doctor was requiring of him in order to allow Harry to leave, he thought he was in over his head.

But no, it actually wasn't that bad, not if he treated it like the paperwork he had to do after a case. Besides, most of the papers just required his signature.

It doesn't take that long all things considered, and by the time Nick is done, Harry has changed into his clothes — note to self, buy Harry some new clothes, even though the boy doesn't look like the type to accept 'charity' (and really is it charity when Nick only wants to get Harry new clothes because he deserves them? Rather than some b.s. sanctimonious reason) — and looks to be on the verge of hopping from foot to foot in anticipation.

Yeah.

There's no way Harry is eighteen. Not with his short stature, not with his baby-face. He may be mature — and think doesn't even want to think about what might have caused him to grow up prematurely — but Harry couldn't be more than sixteen.

And even  _that_  was pushing it.

It's not even when it hits Nick that he's essentially going to have to care for a, likely traumatized, teenager for an indefinite amount of time (those overprotective urges Nick has just barely tried to bury would allow for no less), hasn't even told Juliette, and can't remember if he has anything to eat at home that he feels overwhelmed.

But when Nick, Harry, and Hank exit the hospital,  _just_  as the sun sets — Harry walking beside them, having refused a wheelchair — and nearly stumbles when a wesen  _woges_  at Nick?

That's—

That's when Nick knew he was in over his head.

That's when Nick knew he was in trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come check me out on tumblr! My writing blog is lunaerum and my reg. blog is iirlharrypotter!


	4. Baby Grimm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Nick get pizza, misunderstandings abound, and Harry and Monroe meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to post this on Monday ... I'm about 28 minutes late. Sighs. It's okay though! At least I got the chapter done.
> 
> So, this is not intended as Juliette bashing, I just feel like Juliette wouldn't just go with the flow with a stranger coming to live with them, which is reasonable! The situation is sort of resolved, but not really. Hopefully, you guys can pick up the hints that Juliette and Nick's relationship isn't doing so hot. Also the hints that Nick is 100% more dad-like than before.

Text to Monroe: this is just a hypothetical question, but what's the youngest you've ever heard of a grimm being

Text from Monroe: … That doesn't sound like a hypothetical question, Nick.

Text to Monroe: just, hypothetically, how young can a grimm be?

Text from Monroe: Nick.

Text to Monroe: like 18? 20?

Text from Monroe: Nick, what have you done?

Text to Monroe: it might be easier just to come over

Text from Monroe: Why did I think today was going to be a relaxing and uneventful day? Why did I think that?

* * *

_Two hours earlier_

Nick recovers from the shock of seeing Harry react to the Wesen admirably, only stumbling a little bit and righting himself almost immediately. Harry and Hank both look at him strangely, though Harry quickly loses interest when Nick's only answer is a sheepish shrug.

When they get to the car — his car, how did _that_ happen — Hank claps him on the shoulder and tosses him the keys. "I had someone drive it over while you were …" Hank looks to the side where Harry is amusing himself by kicking rocks. "Preoccupied. You're nervous, right?"

Nick can _feel_ his expression turn into the one everyone at the station calls his 'confused puppy face.' "Yeah, how did you —"

And Hank looks completely unimpressed, raising an eyebrow and bringing up another hand to grip Nick's other shoulder. "Nick. I'm your partner." He says, like that's the only explanation he needs. And — it kinda is. "Just, relax. You'll do fine." Then, louder, "I gotta go, alright? I'll see you tomorrow."

"You need a ride somewhere?" Nick asks Hank, quickly glancing to the side to ensure that his charge hadn't somehow run off. When he sees Harry standing just a few feet away staring at his feet, deep in thought.

"Nah." Hank removes his hands from Nick's shoulders and points a thumb behind him, to his own car parked a few feet away. "I drove here. Don't worry about me."

"Yeah, okay. See you later." Hank's only response to Nick's goodbye is a lackadaisical wave as he walks away. As soon as Hank makes it to his car, Nick turns to Harry, who has also turned to watch Hank depart.

"You ready to go?" Nick asks, then immediately regrets it when Harry flinches back at the noise. Knowing that pushing Harry to make a decision would break any trust the boy had in him so he waits, and eventually, Harry nods — not looking as sullen as before. Still, Harry seems to be fairly cautious so Nick shoots him a smile and asks —

"Hey, how do you feel about pizza for dinner?"

* * *

It only takes about forty-five minutes for Nick to drive across town, get the pizza, and drive home. It's a more than reasonable time frame for Nick, but he can tell that in the short amount of time it took to get the pizza, Harry's energy has depleted.

He'd only really woken up to insist that he pay for the pizza, though after Nick had quickly shot down that idea, Harry had drifted off again. He had wanted to hold the pizza in his lap and after a moment's consideration, Nick had let him.

That had been around fifteen minutes ago, and now, pulling into his driveway, Harry doesn't even stir. If Harry was comfortable around him and okay with it, Nick could've just carried the boy in.

Wasn't like he weighed too much.

But he wasn't comfortable with Nick and Nick knows that Harry wouldn't be okay with it, so instead, Nick parks the car, mulling over what would be the best way to wake the boy.

Shaking his shoulder would just startle him, which Nick didn't want. Going around and opening the door would probably do the same. And Nick didn't know how deep of a sleeper Harry was. Maybe, just —

"Harry ... " Nick says softly, just loud enough to be heard. "Harry, we're here. I need you to wake up so you can carry in the pizzas, big guy."

It doesn't take long.

Barely a second after Nick finished speaking, Harry's eyes snap open and Nick hides his unease at how quickly Harry had been roused from his sleep and _why_ he'd learned to do such a thing behind a gentle smile.

"Hey, it's me, Nick — remember?" Nick's smile falters as Harry shows no sign of responding and instead begins breathing just the slightest bit faster. "We just got out of the hospital earlier," Nick says very conversationally and very quietly. "I'm sorry it took so long to get to my house, but I wanted to grab something for us to eat. You wanna carry in the pizzas for me, Harry?"

And Nick's kind of out of his depth but it seems like just talking to Harry and reminding him of where he was worked, because Harry's breathing evens out and he yawns, seemingly snapping out of whatever had him breathing so heavily.

"I can carry the pizzas in," Harry says, voice a bit hoarse. He turns to look at Nick head—on, seat—belt still on. This complicates things a little, but Harry barely notices. "Do you need help with anything else?"

Nick smiles, hoping to put Harry at ease. "No, the pizzas were all I got. Are you fine with drinking water? I think we might have some lemonade —"

"Water's fine," the boy mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt and nearly jumping out of the car.

"Okay, that's good," Nick says, just to keep the conversation going. He too, gets out of the car and begins walking towards the front door. Harry follows behind him balancing two pizzas in his rather skinny arms. "I live here with Juliette. She's … my girlfriend. I don't know if she'll be here, but she's really nice. Do you want me to carry the pizzas in?" Nick asks, just to ensure that Harry knows he can opt out of the decision to carry them at any time. When he doesn't receive an answer, Nick just shakes his head (after a quick glance behind him to ensure that Harry is still there) and opens the door for his charge. "Alright, just go on in. There's a table just down the hall."

It's more habit than anything that has Nick locking the door as he takes off his shoes off. Once that's done, he follows behind Harry, only to find —

Juliette. In the kitchen … cooking dinner.

" … sorry." Nick says, somewhat guilty. "I forgot to text you that I picked up some pizza. In all fairness, it's been a pretty busy day."

"Yeah," Juliette says, wearing the 'kiss the cook' apron gag gift she'd gotten for Nick awhile back (the joke was that Nick never cooked). "I can tell," she continues, glancing at Harry — who has seen fit to make himself as small as possible standing by their table. The way she says it isn't exactly unkind, but it still makes Harry tense anyway. "But it doesn't matter. Whatever we don't eat we can just put in the fridge."

"Oh — uh, Juliette, this is Harry," He gestures between the two of them, hoping to somewhat clear the air. Though he loved her dearly, Juliette sometimes didn't exactly mean what she said or say what she meant. It was a problem, because Nick was pretty terrible at it too. "Harry, this is Juliette. Harry, uh — might be staying with us for awhile."

" _Oh_." Juliette says, not exactly unhappy but not exactly pleased as she very purposefully turns back to the pan on the fryer.

And Nick can tell that this conversation is as good as erasing all of his progress with Harry, who as it turns out, is still a kid underneath his stubborn exterior. And no kid wants to feel unwanted.

"Uh, yeah — I think I saw that one of the lights in the hallway was flickering. Juliette could you help me change out the bulb?" And with a very intense bout of eye-contact, Nick tries to communicate that it is very, very important that he and Juliette speak right this second and luckily, Juliette is well-versed in Nick's somewhat strange body language.

"Sure," she says, turning off the burner and setting the spatula to the side. She doesn't go as far as to take the apron off because she knows they're not actually going to change a lightbulb, but she very quietly follows Nick further down the hallway, which is win for Nick in his books.

"Okay," Nick whispers as soon as they're far enough where Harry hopefully won't be able to hear them. "I know I should have told you about Harry coming to stay with us —"

"You think?" Juliette asks, not exactly angry (which is good), but definitely frustrated (which is not good, but better than anger).

" _But_ , everything just happened very fast. Harry was — Harry was hit by a car this morning —"

" _What?!_ " Juliette says, a little too loud for their whisper conversation.

Nick grimaces at the thought of Harry hearing what they were talking about, but soldiers on. "I saw it happen, I went to the hospital with him and he claims he's 18, but I don't believe him. He says his parents are dead and he wanted to get a hotel, but the doctors didn't want to let him leave. They wanted to keep him for observation, but Harry didn't want to stay — I know I should've told you, but I couldn't let him go to a hotel where his injuries could worsen and he could get hurt again. I'm sorry, I —" And Nick isn't exactly sure if his babbling is even _coherent_ , but he can't stop himself from speaking. Those strange overprotective urges flare up even more than they already were at even the idea of having to kick Harry out because Juliette isn't comfortable with Harry staying with them.

That train of thought is halted when Juliette very gently places a hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Nick. I didn't know. Of course he can stay with us. Next time you bring your work home, just make sure you text me first."

"Yeah," Nick says, rubbing at his forehead, somehow very, very exhausted. "I'll be sure to do that."

With the conversation done, Nick and Juliette head back to the kitchen where Harry still hasn't sat down. When Harry sees the two of them coming back, he immediately straightens and clutches the strap of his bag.

"I can go to a hotel," Harry says, his eyes darting from Nick, to Juliette, and down, to where he'd set the two boxes of pizza onto the table. "I don't mind, I have money."

"Nah," Nick says with forced casualness. "Don't worry about it, you can stay here." And Nick knows Juliette well enough that she won't apologize now, too embarrassed to do so, so he quickly forges on. "How about that pizza? Are you hungry?"

And it takes a second for Harry to speak, but when he does, he's almost smiling.

"Yeah, yeah I am."

* * *

It takes around thirty minutes for Nick and Harry to eat. The silence is a bit strange considering Juliette and Harry's rocky start, but soon Nick has engaged Harry in a conversation about _owls_ of all things. Once she's finished eating, which only takes about fifteen minutes, Juliette excuses herself from the table. Harry doesn't speak until after she's finished rinsing her plate and has left the room, and when he does, it's much more subdued than he was at the hospital or in the car and Nick makes a note to himself to talk about this new situation more later, once Harry'd gone to bed.

Luckily, kids bounce back fast and soon Nick has Harry talking about all sorts of things. He has a lot of questions too, about Portland — which doesn't bode well, considering Harry doesn't even know where in America it is — but Nick is eager to answer them and ensure that Harry knows his questions are welcome.

At some point after they've eaten and cleaned up, Nick remembers the strange incident outside of the hotel and how Harry had acted like he'd _seen_ the wesen woge. Which —

Was not very good considering that only Grimms could see them. Did that mean that Harry was a baby (well, more teenage than anything else) Grimm? Was there such a thing?

Well.

There was one way to find out. Monroe may know. And so, after Nick asks very politely if Harry could put the one empty pizza box in the garbage, Nick sends Monroe a series of texts and it's when the Blutbad asks him to explain the situation that he realizes …

There's really no good explanation.

It would be easier just to show the other man. So he sends that instead and turns to Harry, who Nick didn't even hear get up from his hair, but he must've considering there's only one pizza box on the table.

His sitting unnaturally still, something that doesn't and shouldn't come natural to kids _or_ teenagers and something deep in Nick's heart aches for the boy in front of him. Nick pushes that to the side and instead smiles at Harry, prompting a curious look in return.

"How d'you feel about a field trip?"

* * *

Nick doesn't know what he's expecting, having Monroe meet Harry. Nervousness has him crafting explanation after explanation in his head, each one worse than the last. Though the ride was considerably longer than the one to Nick's house from the pizza place, Harry doesn't fall victim to sleep this time. Instead, he stares out the window, playing with the sleeve of his over-sized shirt.

(Here, again, Nick reminds himself to buy Harry some more clothes. The ones he was wearing were not only terribly oversized, they were also _blood—stained_.)

It takes a little longer than it normally does, since he's not racing to get there for some vital help or something or other and by the time Monroe's house comes into the view, it's starting to get dark.

"Well," Nick says as he parks on the street outside Monroe's house. "Here we are." He nearly forgets to unlock the doors and quickly does so to let himself and Harry out.

They exit the car at nearly the same time and to kill the awkward silence that had settled around them, he begins speaking again. "This is my friend Monroe's house. He makes watches. He's really nice, you'll like him."

In the dark, Harry's eyes nearly glow. It's a bit eerie if Nick's being quite honest.

"Is that his first name or his last name?" Harry finally asks as they begin the small trek to Monroe's door. Nick finds himself hovering beside the boy in case he trips — or even worse, _collapses_. Which is terrible. He doesn't remember being this much of a mother—hen a week ago.

"You know?" Nick pauses to think as they take those final few steps to Monroe's door. "I've never asked him." And he knocks on the door, firm and loud enough that Monroe can hopefully hear him from anywhere in the house.

Harry snickers. Nick finds himself smiling along. "Maybe you should do that," Harry suggests as they wait for Monroe to answer the door.

"Yeah, maybe I shoul —" Nick is interrupted by a very irritated Monroe swinging the door open and stepping aside to let Nick and Harry in. "Oh hey, Monroe! Harry —" He addresses the boy shuffling into the house behind him, nearly close enough that they bump into each other. "This is Monroe, Monroe, this is Harry."

Harry steps out from behind Nick to greet Monroe and the moment he does —

Monroe woges.

Which … answered the question of if Harry was a Grimm.

For a moment, there's only silence. Nick thinks back to all of the terrible excuses he'd thought up and wonders which one he'll have to use.

Then, finally, Harry speaks.

"Oh." He begins and Nick carefully examines his expression for any sort of shock, though he just finds that Harry just looks wholly unsurprised. "You're a werewolf."

Wait, _what_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is Monroe's reaction to being called a werewolf (hint, he's very offended) and some Harry & Nick & Monroe interaction. More on Juliette too!

**Author's Note:**

> Pleeeeeease talk Grimm with me over on my tumblr - my url is lunaerum! I just started watching Grimm and I need to share all my thoughts on how pretty Nick is and how nice Hank's voice is with people.


End file.
